


Gratifying Acrimony

by autumnsnowfall



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Drama & Romance, F/M, Lovers To Enemies, Mild Language, Minor Violence, Past Relationship(s), Permanently Unhinged, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:07:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28680831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumnsnowfall/pseuds/autumnsnowfall
Summary: There always existed the roots of a cliché when Witchers and Sorceresses met. Often times it was challenged as destiny for those cursed with magic to find one another; A mutant was the only thing that could interest the fickle whims of a Sorceress that could command the world.Except clichés were always broken behind closed doors and destiny's strings cut with angry knives rather than circumstance. When one turned away, the other could reflect an unfiltered self. Lies that hooked into skin to mask an intention. Sometimes it took a monster to see a monster - A Sorceress to see a Witcher where fate dared not tread.
Relationships: Fringilla Vigo/Gezras of Leyda
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Gratifying Acrimony

**Author's Note:**

> This started off as a joke.

It wasn’t the melody of morning larks that forced her to stir, nor was it the sound of the rising farm workers, each making a cacophony of noise as they gathered in the courtyard with baskets, tools, and carts. Such sounds were so familiar to her that they were almost regarded as the music than egregious disruptions. A sound of home rather than punishment of the mind. Along with their symphony, the sun that stated pouring in through the windows and doors tried to nudge her to rise, bringing with it the heat of the Toussaint’s humid air. Naturally, she resisted and merely pressed her face further into the pillows, refusing to even acknowledge that the morning had arrived as she was too comfortable to face the world.

Such laziness wasn’t becoming of her status, but even nobly raised women savored the joys of a warm, enjoyable bed rather than cold floors and clothes. If Anna could do it, why couldn’t she?

What got her to rise in the end was the sounds of plates sliding on a tray from beyond the door. Heavy creaking pricked at her ears, the sound loud enough that it felt as if it was beside her, and when the soft thud of the morning’s breakfast was placed against the door, she finally relented. A push of her elbow to force herself out of her comfortable cocoon and her eyes finally opened to the sight of sun washed over old yew floorboards.

Even from the bed she could smell the delectable scent of fresh jam and bread, and it compelled her to finally rise, the sheets sliding from her bare skin to pool on the mattress beneath. She wasn’t starving, but a provincial breakfast was one she couldn’t deny. There was something incomplete about a day if it didn’t start with something sweet and softly she stepped upon the worn floor of the suite, moving with the grace of a heron, her feet careful, light, and quiet.

Other sorceresses could make themselves young and pretend to be just as beautiful, yet their allure and grace would always fail to hers and she reveled in her own fine training as she glided to the door. How good it felt to stretch and flex, the motions natural for her lithe, perfect body. Any girl could use a potion to turn themselves pretty, but only those truly born with sophistication could make a figure rival a goddess. It was the one thing she agreed with her Aunt about - why use paints and glamour when education could surpass such frivolity? 

There was no need for modesty at that point of the day, but for decency’s sake she pulled a silk robe over her skin in case anyone was lingering outside. It was unbecoming to tease those she didn't intend to bed. It fluttered behind her like a cape, the end trailing like a bride’s skirts, and when she finally reached the door, she found the tray alone in the hall. Nothing else stirred or moved. No servant was there to ask if she wished to hear the news of the day or a child with a basin for a morning wash. Smartly, the lady of the Inn had decided to leave her be and allow her a quiet breakfast, one that she happily took with strong arms. It was one thing she appreciated about the south - everyone understood the value of privacy. Unlike the damned north.

Wine and three jams had been given with the selection of bread, she noted as she carried it in, letting the door close behind her. She would have preferred another - surely there were blueberries ripening somewhere in Toussaint - but the offering was well enough. What mattered wasn’t the variety in the end, but the amount given to be enjoyed. And what had been given was enough for her - No, them both. Full jars of fruit and honey, hard rye bread, light white, and a rustic variety that smelled to be made molasses. Carefully she laid the tray upon the table, taking her time to place each item perfectly and in a manner that would please even a princess, before she finally turned back to the bed.

Her companion still hadn’t stirred. She didn’t know if she even wanted him to, for that matter. Not because he was unbecoming, nor for his ugliness, but for the mere fact that _Witchers_ were so hard to control. A trait about them that did irk her.

Carefully, she moved to sit, letting the robe slide and bundle around her thighs as she stared at her brief lover's sleeping frame, how the sheets draped around him as if he was a corpse awaiting last rites. It wasn’t as if she disliked him in all honesty. He had an indifference about him that she liked in contrast to the men that she usually had the unfortunate pleasure of knowing. The harshness of northern Witchers was always so alluring compared to the flowering whims of southern men. But last night had once again made her truly question her tastes. Not just in bed, but in life.

Why did she put up with the pains? Why was it so hard to disconnect a meaningless encounter with something of true affection? There wasn’t even much of him to use or ply. He held no affection at courts, no admiration between noblemen or familiarity with merchants or even the elves. Really, he was a valueless loner. Yet she still pried him to her bed during the night. Holding tight to his wrist, letting him rake his eyes over her despite the coldness behind them.

It made her reach up to play with her hair, twisting the ends in annoyance. Her foolishness was getting out of hand.

Perhaps it was because of Geralt. The white wolf that had been her mark - her unexpected enchanter. She still longed for _him_ above all else, even after she had declared she wouldn’t. Her mind whispered for white hair and golden eyes, for the loyalty that lay so deep in him that it was painful to comprehend how she’d never know it. The beginning had been a rouse, just like everything she involved herself in. But at the confirmation of his death, she had buried him wailing deep within her heart and tried to douse the yearnings with it. For the trembling and sadness to stop; Her sincerity hadn’t been a lie, despite how many months she kept trying to convince her it was. The longing never quite went away. Now she was left with a dry reality. Her thoughtless whims being indulged when she had other matters she had to attend to. The least of which should be what she cared fit between her legs.

The thought made her turn back to the breakfast, her mood darkening as the room filled with light.

Hiding should be the priority above all else. The rumblings and warnings from Philippa were explicit that caution needed to be exercised at every turn. Emyhr was not a patient or forgiving man. But instead of heeding her council, she sat in an Inn in the south of Toussaint, a mere day’s ride from Anna’s court. Drinking wine, reading leisurely, and acting as if she had all the time in the world. The truth was far from being as kind, yet she couldn't find herself willing to face it just yet. Worse, she had once again tangled herself with another Witcher whose eyes had wandered elsewhere. Whose hidden letters weren’t that hard to find in the dark in pocket linings, nor were his thoughts, even when she assumed they had connected deeper than before. 

It was if destiny was mocking her, bringing her man after man whose intentions were always to seek something else - someone other than her. That despite her own mastery of magic and being born with silver blood and untold freedoms, the world decided she needed to be crippled in some matter. As if being gifted with sorcery was a means for justification in damaging her. It left her with a bitterness not becoming of any woman, but she hardly could help herself at that point. She wasn’t used to being denied so heavily and relegated to being an _other_. A stepping stone for Witchers to find other sorceresses to tangle themselves with while she had to learn how to hide like a mouse in a wall. 

She glared out the window, her fingertips pressing into the wood of the table. Truthfully, it hurt. Yennefer had been one thing, but being second to a _failed_ sorceress bothered her even more. That even a disgraceful Cat Witcher ignored her in favor of the subpar and it brought a sour taste to her mouth as she opened a jar of mixed sweet berries, the jam thick and nearly touching the rim. Was she not as beautiful? Did she not have more wit and elegance than even Tissaia? Did she not deserve loyalty or reverence? Or was she always to be a second choice? The _mournful_ spinster; A grave hag.

She grabbed the wine, not even caring at how unconventional it was to drink such a thing before the sun had even crested the mountains. But damn the expectations. She wanted a drink, that was that. Without a care, she cracked the wax seal and dug one of the knives into the cork.

It was the sound of it popping that finally made the damned Witcher stir and she saw the splash of blood-red hair shift on the pillows. How she wanted to dump the bottle on his head and turn it an even darker red. Would suit him right for thinking of someone else when she had been below him. _Bastard._

He turned and she caught a flash of a single tired, golden eye. He didn’t even bother with a greeting as his obnoxiously smug voice began to purr from under the sheets. “You’re drinking.”

She poured a glass with an expert hand. Enough not to look greedy, but still more than she should. Plough it all, though. He deserved her ire that morning. Last night was meant to be fun and to give her a distraction. Now she was stuck dealing with the reality in which wine was a fitting breakfast. “This is Toussaint,” she replied, her voice cool. “You’d be a fool not to.”

He continued to stare at her with only one eye open. Like an old tom that still kept tabs on its territory. “Most nobles start in the afternoon. Not in the morning like a besotted peasant.”

She didn’t bother to look at him as she picked up the glass with delicate fingers, swirling it toward the light entering from the balcony. It shone with the purity of crushed rubies and smelled like the delicacy of a herbalist’s forest. A Saint Cosme blend; Raspberry with peppered herbals. One sip told her she was right; She's have to give a tip to the Innkeeper that evening.

Only after she enjoyed herself did she bother to respond to him. Forcing him to savour her anger just as she had been subjected to his indifference during his throes of passion. “A single drink in the morning isn’t strange. But I suppose you haven’t quite adjusted to civilized customs, have you? How long have you been down south, Gezras? A hundred years? Two hundred? Yet you’re still as boorish as a Cidarian child." She lounged back in the chair, letting her hair fall over the back. "I guess you really can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”

He leaned up, his brows fitting together in a sour expression and she could see the wicked bends of deep scars that raked down his chest. His once smooth skin that was now marred with disgusting cuts, the sight making her look away. It shouldn’t horrify her and her petty cruelness was unwarranted to his physical appearance, but she was still stung by rejection. Angry that he hadn’t chosen her even after she had given him the full extent of herself.

_Why didn’t Geralt choose her?_

Again, she took a drink as he bore his gaze into her like a panther did to a lamb. Furious that she had insulted him, but too far away to do anything. She set down her glass to pick at a piece of bread, choosing white for the vessel of the berry jam. To distract from her own thoughts of another. How different would life be if she managed to keep him in Toussaint?

“Fringilla,” Gezras said, his accent coming through thick and very unlike Geralt’s. Edged with a lilt that made him sound feline and itching to kill. “Do you really want to test me right now?”

She nearly scoffed. “Test you? Please,” she remarked, taking a taste of the bread. It somewhat settled her stomach and wounded heart. “If a few words from me get you this angry, I shudder to think of what you subject those poor peasants in Vicovaro to. Do you draw your sword at every slight you feel? Or do you have a manner of restraint in your head?”

“You really don’t enjoy living much, do you?”

An empty threat, she deemed it. Barn cats often hissed and arched their back when threatened, but only reacted when truly stuck in a corner. He was just the same. “I enjoy it just fine. You’re the one who decided to cruelly insult me first.”

He moved to sit up on the bed, the sheets falling around his lap, once again revealing a further maze of scars. Claw marks that raked over his stomach and that she could tell were healed by magic. Disturbing enough that she almost touched her own lower belly in pain. She hadn't noticed because the night in Toussaint was as black as ink, but in the daylight he looked like a victim of a massacre. Too real and human for her current mood. “I asked why you were drinking. You took it as a slight.”

“Before that,” she said. “You insulted me a great deal before that?”

“How?”

_”You know how.”_

His cheek twitched and she chewed on her bread, looking past him to the balcony and the valley beyond. The hairs on her body were pricking up, the air between them growing so cold she nearly drew the robe around her, but she maintained her posture. Not bowing to his seething air; It served him right to begin with. These Witchers who hopped from Sorceress to Sorceress while pining for a singular one. Using them as one would a handkerchief. She dropped the bread on the table, no longer hungry as the jealousy grasped at her heart . Weren’t their lives miserable enough without having to play games with fickle mutant hearts? The tender boughs of innocence that were burned by men who were poisoned by their own hubris. It was always the women who suffered.

Maybe Philippa had something right about her. Fuck the men and plough the women.

Then again, all heartbreak felt the same.

She didn’t think further on it as Gezras started to rise, his eyes finally breaking away from her as he pushed off the bed to grab his armor. She maintained her gaze out the window until he started to dress, his back to her as he quietly - angrily - began pulling on his trousers, the belt buckle clicking in a way that reminded her of teeth. Her eyes raked down his marred body, lingering on his thighs before she redirected herself elsewhere, the sounds of morning swallows just enough to distract her from looking back.

The feeling of indifference was supposed to be her for him. Not the other way around. She was stronger than him. Her power was beyond most men, women, and lesser beasts. A sorceress could wield the very fabric of the universe if she saw fit, and she could transcend if given the time and resources to be allowed such exploration. Yet despite such mastery, she was still capable of being reduced to pettiness.

Her fingers moved to play with her short hair, her raven locks long enough to be wrapped and spun, but she kept the strands between two fingers, twisting them. Ruminating as the sun crept higher in the sky and scattered reflective diamonds over the room when it touched her wine glass. Love was stupid and foolish. A distraction; A thing to be used. She was a member of the Lodge and had been apart of greater things.

She missed Geralt. Everything would have been better if he stayed.

She nearly jumped when Gezras crossed past her vision, dressed faster than she realized as he reached to pluck up a piece of the dark rustic bread to eat from the basket. She hadn’t even heard him coming, but her thoughts could distract her heavily if she wasn’t careful. Quietly, she grabbed her wine glass, taking a sip, and she watched him with a slight feeling of annoyance. How even when startling her, he didn’t care. Though he didn't immediately put a blade to her throat, so perhaps he wasn't so angry that he couldn't be rational.

_If_ any Cat Witcher was capable of such a thing.

“How is it?” she attempted as polite talk; Something nice to ease their moods. Unfortunately - or typically - he gave none back. It made her roll her eyes in response, contemplating again if she could dump a bottle of wine over his head. Only problem was she would no doubt spill on herself and she wasn’t in the mood to clean up such an aftermath. “Aren’t you a fantastic partner to make conversation with.”

He broke the bread between two pointed teeth. “You’re the one acting like a jilted lover.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

His eyes slid to meet hers, the hue not unlike a ray of sunlight that sparkled off golden jewels. Beautiful for a second, yet not as brilliant close up. “We’re not lovers.”

“You shared my bed last night.”

“You dragged me up here.”

“And you could have left at any point,” she said, setting her glass down again. “I didn’t have to help you that much with your arousal.”

“You’re a woman.”

She had to blink at him for that. “So what?”

He seemed to assess her as if she was slow in the head, his head cocking in a way that reminded her of an owl. A very stupid one. “You don’t fuck many men, do you Fringilla?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” she narrowed her eyes, not understanding his point. Was he mocking her, on top of everything else?

His lip seemed to quirk up for a second - the side that had been brutally cut by a monster centuries before. A hideous mark that only made his smile seem ghastly. “Any man wouldn’t resist a woman who freely opens her legs.”

“Are you calling me a whore?”

“I’m telling you why I stayed.”

He was insulting her. Again. It made her inhale slowly, her eyes leveling with his, not backing down as his gaze kept with hers. The callousness of him and his utter insensitivity were setting her on edge and she found her fingertips moving to stroke one of the jam knives. It would be suicide to use something so easily countered on a Witcher, but she had to make her own feelings known. Just as she had to before with Geralt.

Except Gezras didn’t seem bothered at all. And she loathed him for that fact.

“Fine. Let’s play by your standards, shall we? That you believe I’m some sort of harlot and the reason you stayed is because you were able to wet your cock.” His face showed nothing and it only irritated her more. “You could have still left afterward. You Witchers don’t require that much sleep - we both know this - and yet you decided to bed down. Undress and make yourself at home.” She reclined back more, purposely elongating her neck to best display her beautiful raw assets. “Now you want to play the victim. Like I seduced you. Isn’t that my right to claim?”

"You approached me last night. I was fine with where I was."

"That's not what I mean," she said, watching him carefully. He was right in that aspect. She had been the one to technically pursue him even though it hadn't been hard. But this wasn't about the truth. "If you can shape your narrative, I can shape mine."

She saw a hint of his brow twitch and she continued with a cold smile. “You hold magic that can trick even the most powerful of mages. Axii, I believe it’s called. If I went calling to the guards and knights to tell them how a Witcher took advantage of poor simple me and now my necklaces are missing, who would they believe?”

His eyes hardened to her inner satisfaction.

“They’d never believe you.”

“Why wouldn’t they? I’m just a simple apothecary in training.”

“Everyone here knows you, Fringilla.”

“Fringilla? Never heard of her,” she said with a sickly-sweet voice. “But that Witcher, he wore a cat medallion. The mark of thieves and psychopaths.” His smile was gone and she could see the sneer forming. An ugly expression that didn’t quite fit on his marbled face. “Who do you think will become the victim now, Gezras?”

“You wouldn’t-”

“I would,” she snapped, her own fury taking over inside her, blotting out all other feelings, even then slight amusement that she had before. “Because you constantly insult me. _You_.” She damned well snarled the last word. “Then you have the gall to act as if I’m beneath you.”

“You are beneath me,” he said in a cold, even voice.

“You are beneath _me_!” She cut right back. “In every damn way, Gezras! I asked you here last night because I still had fond memories from the other times, yet you act as if I'm a succubus preying on you. As if you're worth so much! So, yes, _Witcher_. I would resort to such things. If only to make you realize your place.”

He took a moment to consider her, his eyes as cold as the steel on his back, before he gave a soft huff. She couldn’t be sure if it had been a laugh or not. Without a care he picked up another piece of bread, breaking it in two before he plucked the jam jar from near her and dipped one corner in. Her lips pursed, waiting for him to say something, but he merely ignored her.

She slumped back in the chair, watching him in utter confusion. She expected him to have some sort of reaction - he wasn’t known for being the most rational at times. Instead, the calmness made her uneasy. When he dipped the second piece of bread into the jam, she started to relax, moving to grab her wine glass.

It was then that he moved. Faster than she could blink, his hand grabbing her wrist in a grip that nearly snapped it, the glass shattering on the table from the force of him crushing it between his palm. She almost shouted, yet Gezras was against her, shoving the broken stem of the wine glass against her throat to the point where she could feel how fragile she was. How if he wanted to, one push would have her dead in less time than it would take for her to cast a spell.

Her heart began to beat, her mouth running dry, but she refused to show any emotion to him. The moment she gave in to her fear, he would own her, and she was not so damn breakable. Even if the little girl inside her wanted to cry.

Casually, she licked her lips. “Aren’t you intimidating,” she said, leveling her voice. His damn eyes were stabbing into her, both pupils slowly turning into damn slits, and she took care to make sure he didn’t see how much her hand was shaking under his grip. “You really do get off to killing people, don’t you?”

“Only those that deserve it,” he said, the edge of the glass pushing further into her skin, almost cutting it. “Besides, you’re a nobody, aren’t you? Just some apothecary? What Knight will give a damn to find your body up here?”

“Plenty of people would care.”

He made his strange noise again. “I doubt they’d even care if they knew it was you, Fringilla Vigo. I would probably get a reward for cutting your throat.” He leaned in and she grit her teeth as the glass shard pointed up, nicking her. Small enough to sting and draw a thin drop of blood. “I heard you were part of some cult that was trying to take over the North. Yet here you are, back down south. Pretending to be a stupid herbalist.”

“It wasn’t a cult,” she felt her cheeks flush in anger.

“Really? A bunch of Sorceresses plotting isn’t a cult? My mistake.”

“As opposed to your little group of rejects?” she cut right back. “I at least took part to actively preserve the station of magic in society. What do you do, Gezras, other than get fleas from abandoned barns and chort corpses? What have you ever damn well done?”

“I slept with you. Though I suppose that isn’t an accomplishment, now is it?”

She gaped at him. What was he on about? “Excuse me?”

Again, he made that damned smile. One that looked as if his old scars were going to crack open; The look of a demon in human form that led to her skin prickling in fear. "There was a time I thought I did care about you. Yet you're the same as the rest of them." 

Her own cheek twitched in defiant anger.

“You can insult me all you want, Fringilla. Make up whatever lies you want. Pretend to be someone else around everyone. But I know the way you work - all of you magic-wielding _humans_.” He spit the last word so violently she shuddered slightly. “You sorceresses that are above us all, except when you need a thrill. A witcher, if you’re so inclined, to bed us like rose bulbs in a garden plot.” He gave a small shrug. “And we don’t hold it against you because your true nature is to be selfish. When you kick us out after your tastes are satisfied or when you realize we can’t be so manipulated into doing whatever you want, we leave back to the Path. Yet you lot always come chasing after and then act like we're monsters for growing tired of it.”

She glared at him, how he was blaming her again. Like a damned bastard. "I never chased you."

"No. That's beneath a Nilfgaardian, isn't it?" he sneered. 

"I'm from Toussaint."

"It's the _same_ place."

Now he was really getting under her skin, but she was not going to let him rock her. Not without calling attention to his own selfishness first and she swallowed, ignoring the feeling of the broken glass still jutting into her skin. “You said earlier all I had to do was open my legs and you consider that manipulation now? Did you pledge yourself to the Eternal Fire or do you have to justify everything for your lack of self-control when it comes to your damn cock?"

His lips pressed thin. “I said I stayed because you offered, Fringilla. Take it however you want. But don't act as if I forced myself in here or that it means anything. Because you clearly didn't care either.”

It was her turn to frown deeply, struggling not to breath too hard as the glass shard continued to press into her neck. “What are you talking about?”

Slowly, he drew back, taking the shard with him and nonchalantly he tossed it on the table, as if the conversation had bored him. It gave her a chance to briefly touch her neck, soothing the skin and rubbing at the drying blood from the cut. “You know what I’m talking about. But if you want to pretend to be blind to it, be my guest.”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” she narrowed her eyes, ignoring the inkling that was forming in the back of her mind. “Unless you mean that I regret even speaking to you.”

“Hm,” he barely shrugged. “You know. But I really don’t care anymore.”

Again, he was looking down upon her and she found herself studying him. Now that he wasn’t looming over her, she was in a better position to defend herself. There were spells that didn’t require an utterance of word, merely a manifestation of will. If the bastard tried to stick her neck with glass again she would gladly ignite his flesh and show him the meaning of pain. Yet again, he’d probably like it.

But words always cut deeper than swords at times. Her eyes dragged over him, how he was looking back to her breakfast, now covered in glass, and his damn apathy made her flush in humiliation. At how he had the damn ego to have threaten her moments before, now he was considering bread and jam as if nothing happened. He picked up another piece of bread and she felt a storm rise in her chest. The utter damn audacity he held despite what he was.

She had been a fool, yes. But she wasn’t going to sit there and be subjected to his lunacy when he had contributed to hers. Once more she steeled herself, breathing in through her nose, filling herself with a calmness before she extended her neck up, making sure to look down at him physically, she began to speak. Her voice like glacial ice yet as sweet as golden caramel. “Why don’t we talk about manipulation then, Witcher. That you continue to act a victim. As if you, the poor man, was once again made to sin by the wicked woman.”

He gave her a disinterested look, but it only made her continue. “Yet you’re the one who spent a night with me. Several, in fact, over the years, even though you have that little _witch_ waiting for you.” He went still. “How do you think she feels? You make your way up North, fucking whoever you please as you do. I think Ida has mentioned you before, has she not? You remember Ida, don't you?”

The subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth felt good. Even better was when she raised her hands up, letting them glow to warn him not to try his damned shit again. “All us sorceresses are such wicked women, despite you constantly manipulating one. But yes, we’re to blame for you spreading your seed. You clearly have an iron will that only crumbles when a woman is present. It’s all of us who tempt you into sinning and you're so damn innocent. Just a poor boy who can't turn a pretty woman down. You're so hard done by, aren't you, Gezras?”

"Are you trying to make a point?"

"I'm making an observation. Since you've been manipulated by so many of us," she touched a few strands of her hair again, twisting them. "The poor Cat Witcher. How hard it must be for you and _her_ and your constant infidelity because of us actual Sorceresses."

For a second, she had him. It was subtle but his body language was still communicated well even through his layers of dark blue and mud brown armor. The way his fingers curled, the tension in his neck, the straightness of his spine. But instead of him reacting in anger - denying it even - he looked away and his mouth quirked. 

He found it funny.

It incensed her, her shoulders growing tense as she adjusted in the chair, sitting a bit more stiffly as she flickered magic between her fingers. An electrical pulse, not unlike lightening during a storm. “This is funny to you? I didn’t realize you thought so little of her. Even when your mind was overflowing last night and you just convinced yourself it was my fault instead of yours.” He bit into another piece of bread, eating once again and not acknowledging her.

It should have been her sign. To kick him out, lock her doors, and spend the day unwinding and thinking about Geralt than this. To quell her jealousy and frivolous emotions with something better than arguing with a damned prick. Yet despite how good she was at acting, there were times when even she slipped and she became as passionate and incensed as her cousin. She did not like to be jilted, nor did she like feeling like such a second choice. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice last night? Even without seeing your thoughts? That you damn well were thinking of her while you were with me? Is this what a Cat Witcher’s loyalty looks like? If so, I feel damn well sorry for her.” He nearly laughed. The dry, awful sound that made her nearly sneer herself in disgust. “So this is funny to you?”

“Hardly,” he bared his teeth. Feral and deranged, as if he would truly like to eat her. “I just find your complaints against me rather rich considering you seem to be purposely forgetting last night yourself.”

Again, a part of her went cold. “Pardon me?”

“You never damn well thought of me either, but I’m the one who needs to be punished because of your selfish insecurities,” he shot back. “You think you didn’t have a slip of the tongue last night? Or are you allowed to pretend I'm someone else while reading my mind so you can be pissed about it later.” He tore up another piece of bread. "And you women think I'm damn well insane."

She stared at him, but the hairs on her body stood up, the ones on her neck sending harsh shivers down her spine. “What are you talking about?” she asked, yet her voice was low. Almost terrified with what he was saying. He made another ugly sound, attempting to laugh and it didn't soothe her nerves as he turned to full face her again, his form slightly intimidating her. "I was focused on you last night."

“Right. You, Fringilla Vigo. You, who dragged me up here. You, who kept begging me to stay. You, Fringilla, who didn’t damn well say my name last night, yet me thinking of someone I’d rather be with is cause for a flogging. Someone who doesn’t care what I do, if you really wish to know.” He leaned forward slightly, mockingly, and she felt her heart begin to hammer. She never said anything last night, he was lying. A tactic to get a rise out of her. “We both decided to think of someone more pleasant. You just don’t like that I’m not grovelling at your feet about it.”

It took her a minute to swallow, her throat as dry as the Korathi desert. “I never said anyone’s-”

“Geralt,” he hissed. Her entire body went rigid. “Not even close to my name. But you obviously think I didn’t hear that slip of the tongue, did you?”

She didn’t have a defense, her mind whirling to when she could have even said it. It was impossible for her to - she had utter control over herself and despite how much she ached and longed, there was no way she would have been so careless as to relay something like that. She was a wall made out of marble, not sandstone, but she could feel part of her foundation slip. Denial took hold as she struggled for a foothold.

“I never spoke another name but yours.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” he spat, his voice like a knife, nicking her once again. Yet if he intended for her to be terrified, he was sorely mistaken. It only emboldened her more and she found herself straightening her shoulders, refusing to slouch anymore, the ground under her ceasing to crumble as she held tight to the edge of herself. “I don’t even care who that is, but don’t pretend you’re so virtuous in comparison to me.”

“I hardly have to pretend,” she said, gaining her voice back. “And considering how you pontificate about everything, I wouldn’t be surprised if _she_ thought of someone other than you.” His cheek twitched to the point where she could see his anger. The physical embodiment of it - barely restrained - and how quick he was to change his emotion. Going from bemusement to hollowness in only a few words. It was a fury that ran thick, untamed, and deep under his skin, moreso than earlier, yet she would not be talked down to. “You want me to admit it? Fine. I thought of someone else, someone wholly better than you, Gezras. A Witcher that actually was worth caring about, who doesn't spend his time deciding to break wine glasses and shove them into my neck for merely telling the truth or challenging him. A man that wasn't - _isn’t_ \- fucking unhinged!”

“Unhinged?” he almost seemed amused by the word, but the coldness in the way he said it relayed his true feelings on the matter. It nearly made her doubt herself.

“Psychopathic,” she decided, picking the words with a dark sharpness. “Unbalanced. A lunatic. Pick whatever word you wish!”

His hand flew past her hair, enough that she felt the wind of it as he grabbed the back of the chair with a violent crack and forced himself right into her space. To where his nose nearly touched hers. The act made her lose her voice, his eyes piercing so hard into her she trembled and her fingers that had held a spell went cold from the shock. Her mind whirled under the tension, how calling someone who was permanently insane such things wasn’t a good idea. Why was she provoking him? Sorceresses weren’t invincible. But there was a frustration inside herself that wasn’t satisfied. She didn’t want to act like some docile little maid nor back down under the gaze of a man that was making her incredibly tense. It should be the other way around - if it was, then perhaps the world would be turning differently. 

If she found her voice and properly tamed the White Wolf, she wouldn’t be trapped in such a place at that moment.

Quietly, she gained her strength back and she looked down her nose at him, pushing right back with her own feralness. “This only proves I’m right.”

He smiled at her and she nearly flinched. “I disagree. All you’ve done is piss me off - over and fucking over. But I think we both know who is unhinged between the both of us.”

“If you’re implying it’s me-”

“It is you,” he purred, sending a shiver down her spine. How utterly grotesque he could be when he put his mind to it. It was sending off warnings throughout her body, the back of her mind hissing at her as her fingers tried to shape a spell, yet their movements were wrong. As if she was unsure of herself. 

Yet this was what Witchers were. 

This was his true face and she had once again been fooled by the illusion of temperance. He leaned right in, his breath searing against her skin and she was forced to endure it. To listen to his contorted reality as her own anger swelled and crashed inside her, blinding her from sense, cracking the tension between them. 

“You call me psychopathic when the only reason you pursue me - and continue to - is because I won’t bow to you. I’m not _broken_ enough for you.” She glared at him and how utterly idiotic he was. As if she ever wanted to know him if he considered himself at that moment intact. “You’re the one who needs me to be at a certain stage of vulnerability so you can pretend to be a saviour. You came to me because you still think I'm some fucking stupid boy who likes to play with swords, and you purposely agitate me when I prove that I am not whatever illusion you mentally created. I'm not whatever Witcher you fucked before, and I never will be. No matter how hard you damn well try." His eyes flicked down, looking her over as if she was a pathetic, petulant child, and she clenched her jaw so tight, it burned. "If that isn’t unhinged, Fringilla, then tell me what is?”

"Don't give me that," she hissed. "You are damned broken, but if you think I enjoy you acting like a sociopath, then you're-"

"I'm not, but you are again convincing yourself I am because it absolves you of whatever issues you have. That it's fine for you to live in your little fantasy where you own me like I'm a pet rather than a Witcher."

The gall he had. “I don’t need nor want you.”

“Yes you do,” he gave her a hollow smile. “Because if you didn’t, I would have already been gone this morning. I could have dressed, you could have done whatever it is you wanted - eat, sleep, shit. Take your pick. But you didn’t want that, did you? You woke up and decided to make me the enemy because of _your_ regrets. Because you wanted something else.” She grit her teeth and it only was a confirmation to him. And it was if he had been struck in the head by the gods, his eyes suddenly lightening with realization. A hideous sight as she dug her fingernails into her palms, her magic uncooperative. 

No, her mind was being foolish. Failing her when she needed it most.

“You don’t want me to leave you.”

“I want you to leave,” she struggled to maintain an even tone.

“No you don’t,” he sneered, staring at her with new eyes. Ones that made her feel beyond naked and she grabbed the robe to finally pull around her. He didn’t seem to care. “You want me to replace that name you spoke. You want me to become that _Geralt_.”

She nearly turned to stone, her heart ceasing to beat. It was as if he slapped her.

“He didn't love you, did he? So you want me to in his place.”

With that statement, the world stopped. Every fibre of her being went cold, her anger overtaking her for a second at her exposure - that she had been flayed open by a small group of sentences by a sociopath whose only good use was to be used. He was the one who should be in the ground, not Geralt. Not the White Wolf, who made the wrong choice. He could have forgotten and moved on with her and she would have given everything for him. A life of comfort with prestige and fame could have been his and yet he threw it all away.

He left her in such a state that she had resorted to this. _A Cat Witcher_. And for a second, she trembled with a seething hatred that her nails dug deep crescents into her palms.

Gezras merely straightened; She knew he felt it too. That he was nothing more than someone to be used and his own disgust was as palpable as hers. But when her eyes moved to catch his, she saw the blame in them. How he regarded her so lowly even though he had no right. Geralt had loved her, he damn well professed it, but with every day he remained dead the words became hollow until she was left as a husk herself. Left with no options but this. And Gezras understood it as perfectly as she did.

This wasn’t _her_ fault. Yet he was condemning her and she despised him more than anything in that moment. That he refused to take stock of it and grasp it all and instead view her as if she was pathetic. It left her feeling raw and her vulnerability a monster in her heart.

The anger that brewed and roiled burned the entire morning atmosphere into something colder than the depths of the sea and as she raised her chin as she stared at him, refusing to take her gaze away, forcibly peeling away everything about him. Making him feel just as he did to her. In his own greedy eyes she saw the same reflection back. Of a person who had come to a truth and no amount of refusal would heal it. The wound was now open and bound to fester, yet neither would take the needle to mend it. She let it fester and dared him to do the same. 

Without prompt, he did the same, his pupils gradually narrowing, revealing how his eyes were a disgusting shade of green instead of the gold she had assumed. That beneath his mutations the horrible abomination that was his previous self remained. A furious, angry child that couldn’t be fully buried. He truly was a _failed_ experiment and it made her swallow dryly as he ripped into her with the same disdain. Seeing her not as she was, but something else. Ugly; Spoiled.

Inferior.

As if he was better than _anyone_.

He needed to leave. To go back to whatever pits he crawled out of, back down south to Vicovaro where his illusion of a perfect life existed. But her fingers still trembled, her skin prickling under his eyes, her chest rising as his pupils began flooding again, making them just like a cat’s. One that had seen an injured mouse and whose hunger was more earth-shattering than it realized. He stood before her like a demon from an enchanted forest, with his damn swords, his pale skin, and bestial presence that was nothing short of being an abhorrent front to nature. And she sat like she was taught - perfect and controlled. She was the epitome of a dynasty, who had stood with the most powerful to fix the world. She was a goddess incarnate and he was nothing more than a conjuncture from hell. A thing to be banished and driven out; She understood the tales from the North now and why such men were hated and feared.

Only it still didn't change one thing. That she wanted Geralt. Her body wished to have such a man before her with such gentle hands and soft laugh that it made her repeat it in tune. The Witcher that was forever dead and buried and out of her reach. Holding his dead Sorceress. An ending like a fairytale - one that would always neglect to mention her.

Instead of her previous prince, she was stuck with the remnants of what should have died a century before. But he was all she had. Even as she looked down on him, hated him, time still continued past Geralt's death and she was living in an aftermath. Gezras didn’t give a damn about her, but did she really care about him? Wasn’t he at least a semi-suitable substitute like he figured out? If one ignored everything about him but his physical features and hair. His eyes were a near-match to Geralt’s, his name similar enough that she had said it without even thinking. He still had mutations running through his veins, just without restraint as Geralt had, but they were still there. Enough where she swore he even smelled similar. Potions of celadine and balisse, oils made to cut deeper into wounds and leather that had been mended and repaired with callous fingers. When everything was stripped down, didn’t it just matter that for a second she could relive the moment? Her fingers moving over scars she could imagine were his and staring into glowing eyes that could be from a Wolf rather than a Cat.

When she moved first he nearly flinched, his hand raising for his blade as she pushed away from the chair, standing before him, but he smartly stopped when she doused her hands. They were nearly at equal height - a noticeable downside for him - but it didn’t matter in that moment. She grasped his arm, her nails raking into the leather before she pulled herself forward, nearly connecting with his lips, but held away enough to judge the tension. His breaths were still hot with fury, the fire unquenched, but anger always had a side effect. One they could taste as they stared at each other with equal hatred, disgust, and rawness.

Like he had said, she was a woman, and he still was physically a man. As much as she loathed it, he had exposed her and it had snapped something in herself. That maybe he was right, she did only want broken things. 

So what?

They couldn’t all be Yennefer of Vengerberg or Geralt of Rivia. Some of them had to wallow in filth.

Besides, he was never going to experience anyone like her, and if he didn’t want her then she didn’t care either. She had her mind on someone else; White hair with honey eyes. Just as he had his own mind on his own little failed Sorceress. A reject from Aretuza - a nobody, just for him.

Gezras still stopped her. Just for a moment his voice tore through her confidence and she had to acknowledge that he was speaking to her. In that hissing, arrogant voice that sounded like a tiger. "I'm not your damn substitute or golem."

She nearly snorted as her fingers moved to undoing the straps on his gauntlets. "If you wanted someone who gives a shit about you, go back home."

His head titled slightly, yet he didn't move. “You will never be better than _her_.”

“And you’ll never hold a candle to _him_.”

“At least mine isn’t an illusion.”

She slipped her hand up around her neck at that, resisting the urge to begin lighting his skin on fire. To tear into him like a panther - make him hurt like he did to her. Have him taste the pain he inflicted. Instead, she threw herself into him, forcing him to hold her and embrace them like they were true lovers. Her eyes flicked to his, acknowledging the revulsion they held for one another at that moment, and she drank it in, letting it grow to the point where she could see how his blood ran hot in his veins. That despite everything, he was a damn hypocrite.

Yet so was she.

“I’d rather love an illusion than you,” she hissed. And before he could answer she put her mouth to his, shutting him - and her - up. Drowning herself as the Toussaint sun forced itself in through every pane of glass and crack, revealing the extent of her flaws and idiocy. That her emotions had led to this - the breaking of her fast was now tainted by _him_.

She hated one and loved the other. 

He should have stayed.

And he should have left.


End file.
